A Battle of Wills
by surestsmile
Summary: [CoM, pregame, oneshot] Naminé knows what it's like to be caught between a rock and a hard place. And it isn't nice at all.


A/n: I sincerely apologize for the horrible title. I wouldn't have titled this if I could, but since FFN insists on a title, I had to settle for something...remotely close to what I wanted to convey. If someone has a better title for this, please suggest in your review. I would thank you so much.

Disclaimer: I do not own Naminé, Axel, Zexion or Lexaeus. They belong to Squaresoft.

A Battle Of Wills

"So you're the memory witch."

Naminé looked up from her sketchpad at the visitor who had just ghosted into her room, arms drawn over his chest in a protective gesture. She immediately wondered if he had adopted that stance deliberately or unconsciously, all the while channeling a desire to be untouched to all who saw him. She couldn't help it, locked in this place for two months (she etched lines on the wall whenever she woke up. Although it was a pathetic way to gauge days when she couldn't even see the rising and the setting of the sun but it was she had) with nothing to do but draw and make blueprints and dream...it was far nicer to observe people and make up stories about them.

She put her crayon down, turning over to have a better look at him. Softly, she introduced herself.

"My name is Naminé."

His gaze didn't send chills down her spine like Marluxia's did, but it disturbed her with its emptiness, a kind of deep blue hollow that extended down into darkness, and it brought to mind the words, "Stare too deep into the pit and the pit will stare right back at you." Momentarily, his gaze wavered, and she was struck by an almost tangible change in that single blue eye.

There was something there now, instead of the blue hollow, and she shifted uneasily as his gaze turned lonely, sad, pitiful. It reminded her of her, like she was looking at a mirror of herself but in tall, black-cloaked flesh and a veil of lilac hair.

"I am Zexion."

His voice was coated thick with honey, smooth and aristocratic and with the right amount of boredom that she had begun to associate with the people who come to her room (always, always bored, when you're bored why not come to the memory witch and jeer at her?), and he doesn't remove his hands from their places as he walked closer to her. Even his face didn't give her any clue; she had never seen someone so expressionless before.

"You're very young," he remarked, and she bowed her head down, hands screwing in her white dress, unsure of what to say. Silence always seemed to work, when Marluxia and Larxene popped in to look at her. It was easier to just fade into the background, and safer as well. Larxene tended not to slap her so much if she kept her mouth shut.

Still, she could feel the beginnings of tremors when Zexion finally stood in front of her, struggling to squash the urge to flee.

_He's not Larxene, he's not Larxene, he's not Larx-_

A frightened squeak left her lips as Zexion cupped her cheek, and she screwed her eyes shut, breathing hard through her nose. Zexion's hand had left her immediately, and she could hear the rustle of clothing as he stood up again, and the drawling voice that would not echo in the emptiness that was her Castle, "I see."

She only started to open her eyes again and peek from below damp blond lashes when she heard the rustle of paper, and immediately stood up when she saw that he was flipping calmly (calmly, not recklessly, not carelessly) through her drawings, stuttering out, "Please...please don't destroy them."

He looked at her again, face still kept carefully expressionless (she could see now, see past that façade, he was a shell, just like the rest of them), before shuffling the papers back into a neat pile. They regarded each other again, silence falling anew.

The silence clawed at Naminé; maybe she had grown too used to the duo's chatter. Haltingly, she said, "They're memories of my home."

Zexion said nothing, and his face and eye showed nothing as well, and Naminé could feel frustration welling up within her. Of course he wouldn't care to know anything about her, and it was foolish saying that anyway. She looked away again, clutching her dress.

"Then keep them well."

Naminé looked up in surprise at those words, and she opened her mouth to say something, anything, 'thank you' or 'yes, I will' but someone else appeared at the same instant, tall and burly and solid and totally the opposite of the wisp that she had been with the past ten minutes, saying, "Zexion, where have you been" and trailing off the moment he caught sight of her.

"You were with her all this time?"

And when Zexion answered, "Yes. Is there something the matter, Lexaeus?" she thought she could hear something more than the emptiness and disinterest in his voice, something that was infinitely more real, and she wondered if he was reflecting off the other man now.

"No," Lexaeus said, walking towards the both of them, "I was simply wor-wondering where you were." His eyes flickered towards her, and she shied back. "I see that you've been keeping yourself occupied."

"I have." She filched a quick look at Zexion, and was quietly taken aback at the slight smirk on his face. Lexaeus raised one eyebrow, his own stoic expression not changing. He only nodded deeply, once, and then his gaze slid back to Naminé. "Memory witch," he acknowledged, and for some reason her temper flared.

"My name," she said quietly but determinedly, "is Naminé."

The brown eyes narrowed, but Lexaeus didn't make a move. "Naminé, then. It was good to meet you at last."

"Now, now, Lexaeus, is this how we greet our guest?"

She was shivering terribly before she even noticed herself, smelling the thick, pervasive scent of _sakura_ in her nostrils (death and flowers and obsession and madness all mixed into one noxious cloud), and Marluxia's hand was on her shoulder, squeezing tightly, squeezing so hard that it _hurt_ and she couldn't help but wince.

Lexaeus seemed to stare hard at her captor, before making a slight bow. "My apologies, my lady."

The mockery was not directed at her, but it hurt a little, all the same. And Marluxia's high falsetto laughter didn't help either. "Don't be so pompous, Lexaeus! It doesn't become you."

"Nor does it become you as well," Zexion interjected smoothly, moving to stand beside the tall, burly man. The hand on Naminé's shoulder tightened even further, and she squirmed, trying to get away. "You're hurting your charge, Marluxia."

"So I am." The grip lessened, but she still couldn't get away. "What does it matter to you anyway? And why are you above ground?"

"Does it matter to you as well?" Zexion's voice turned soft and silky, and Naminé never wanted to disappear so much. "I merely wanted to visit the Castle's creator. Surely both Lexaeus and I have that much of a right, yes?"

"Your place is below, Zexion."

"And we have overstayed our welcome. Thank you, Marluxia." Lexaeus cut in before his rather irate partner (Naminé could see that Zexion had some sort of strange, disgruntled expression on his face, and his blue eye was livid) could retort, and he was taking Zexion's arm and suddenly they were fading away together.

Naminé wished with all her might that she had gone along with them.

"I didn't say anything!" she protested, arms flying up to protect her face. "I didn't!"

But Marluxia didn't strike her, turning away and suddenly in her heart she knew what he was heading for, the pile of papers, her pencils and crayons (her dreams and her memories and oh gods _oh gods no_) and he slashed through them all, even through the white table that had the image of a hunt that she had recalled seeing on the woven carpet of her ex-parents' dining room and imprinted it upon the white stone so that she wouldn't forget.

"And that was to make sure that you never will in the future, Naminé. Don't talk to anyone else in this Castle besides me and Larxene. And remember, it is _their_ fault your precious things got destroyed." Marluxia nearly purred, settling his scythe back on his shoulder, ghosting out of the room, leaving her to stare at the pieces of shattered stone and powdered crayon and slips of useless paper.

And slowly, ever so slowly, she began to cry.

* * *

Feedback is appreciated. 


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